


This Sadness Will Last Forever

by Issay



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Art, Canonical Character Death, Headcanon, Multi, Threesome, canonical violence, character centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One mistake is all it takes and the streets of New York don't forgive easily. So listen carefully. Do not have any loyalties, do not make promises, do not make friends – you can have only allies, respect your enemies, sleep with a gun under your pillow and never, ever love anyone. You can have either power or love. Never both.<br/>No one said that power doesn't come with a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Landscape with Snow (F290)

**Author's Note:**

> [Landscape with Snow](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6e/Van_Gogh_-_Landschaft_im_Schnee.jpg)   
> 

When Wilson Fisk meets James Wesley for the first time, the latter one is on the ground, half-dead and bleeding all over the ground of that particular dark alley. He's no more than just a kid, too tall and too skinny not to draw attention, who was simply in the wrong place. Wilson doesn't really know what happened, maybe it was a mugging, maybe a drug deal gone bad. He sees track marks on the young man's arms. It's not something that surprises him, not after so many years of living in Hell's Kitchen.

Wilson isn't sure why but he renders one of the attackers unconscious with a punch, the other one already running away. Apparently loyalty isn't a thing amongst New York's muggers. Leaving the knocked out man on the ground, Wilson looks at the kid.

“Are you alive?” he asks when the attacked man moves and carefully touches his bloody face.

“Guess so,” kid looks up at Fisk and now Wilson can take a better look at him. Yes, a kid, no more than twenty, maybe twenty two if you're pushing it. Two missed meals from starvation, bruises under his eyes and a mop of brownish looking hair, now with blood in it. But it's the hands that do it for Fisk, elegant hands with long fingers. Those are not the hands of a drug addict who won't last three years on the street – those are hands of a man with potential. And Wilson knows how to use it, what is more, has a need to use it that surprises him even more than the rest of the ordeal.

And he knows that the most loyal creatures are the ones you once saved.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” he asks, already knowing the answer. A bit further into the alley, on the dirty snow, is a duffel and a rolled sleeping bag. Boy shakes his head.

“It's James. And no,” with a grunt he stands up and Wilson steadies him with a hand on his elbow. For a moment Fisk simply looks at it, his huge, meaty hand on James' frail body, he can feel every bone from beneath too thin clothing. “I don't.”

Wilson isn't even sure why he takes James home.

*

He's the master and creator. He breaks James into million pieces and then redoes him, again and again, until he's satisfied with his work. Wilson molds James into a perfect right hand man, into a loyal confidante, into a fanatic that will die before betraying his master.

James is perfectly okay with it all.

*

Wilson Fisk is an ambitious man. He has everything planned in details, right up to the point when he's the king of the mountain, when he truly rules the New York's criminal underbelly. But it will take years to get there. It doesn't influence his ambition though, he's in for a long haul. And now so is James so they share long, dark evenings in a quiet of Wilson's studio apartment in the heart of Hell's Kitchen, planning and exchanging information. James has been weaving an intricate web of contacts and allegiances, his phone being now one of the best sources of fresh intel. When Wesley is on the phone with his contact in bratva, Wilson quietly congratulates himself for the idea of taking the boy home all those years ago. It wasn't an easy process, getting him to clean up but when he was finally sober, James turned out to be something of a prodigy. He literally devoured any university-level book he could find in thrift stores and cheap bookshops, reading up on philosophy, economy, tactics and history of crime. Wilson finally has a partner to lose himself in discussion with.

Someone to share his plans and ambitions with, who is absolutely obedient and at the same time has his own quite brilliant mind.

He knows that James could easily be his undoing. All one of his enemies would have to do is to grab Wesley and make him talk, be it by torture or... But the thing is, if Fisk has an absolute trust in anything, it's his own ability to bend people to his own will. James is one of those cases that just stay the way he wants them to and that makes him unbreakable.

*

The universal truth about any criminal career is: you can't be an ambitious man and not make enemies. It simply a part of this life, comes in a package with the rest of the shit you'll get involved in.

Another thing everyone knows but no one says out loud: it's really fucking easy to make an enemy. It's almost impossible to make a friend.

*

Fisk knows that the Armenians are going to have a problem with him taking over the extortion business but doesn't really care. Their way of doing shit is just atrocious and inefficient, based on pure strength and violence. Those things work only on weak people, the stronger ones will wait it out and rebel quietly, Wilson knows that there are no weak people in Hell's Kitchen. It doesn't take a genius to beat up an old lady running a deli but it does take a genius to make her stop talking to Russians, begging for protection. Wilson Fisk isn't a fan of the Russian mobsters, he never was, always felt like they spoke a completely different language even when they used English.

So he makes his move – it takes three days and sleepless nights, Wesley is napping on the couch completely exhausted, eyes closed and suit jacket left carelessly on a chair. Wilson straightens it, absentmindedly running fingers on soft wool. James sleeps with his hand on a gun holster. Fisk sips whiskey.

They are waiting.

He makes his move and Armenians are angry because he has weakened him. He, one man people are starting to be afraid of but at the same time they start to respect him.

He's not careless. At this point he already has an apartment in a secure building with guards and now he also paid for additional protection detail, armed to the teeth. Wilson knows trouble when he sees one and his move on Armenians was an omen of a shit storm. But it was necessary so at least he took precaution.

In the end, said precaution doesn't really matter.

By the time first Armenian henchman bursts through the entrance to the apartment, additional guards are already bleeding out from deep throat cuts and Fisk gets shot in the arm by the first burst of ammunition. He can see Wesley spring from the couch, in a matter of seconds completely conscious, already reaching for his gun and a spare, the handgun hidden under the coffee table (never say Wilson Fisk isn't one paranoid son of a bitch. It keeps him alive). He shoots the attacker, as well as other three and drags Fisk into the bedroom.

The corridor is empty. That will teach them, thinks Wilson, to send a team bigger than four shooters and a poor idiot stuck in the runaway car. James' eyes above him are almost black and scared, yes, scared, that's bad, isn't it? But it feels so sinfully _good_ to have someone scared for his life.

The last thing his fuzzy mind registers before falling into darkness are soft hands on his wounded shoulder and, for some reason, taste of peaches.

*

James Wesley is many things but “inefficient” is not one of them. Neither is “bad in crisis”.

With one hand pressing a tablecloth to Fisk's wound and trying to stop the bleeding, James calls Owlsley. It's not because he trusts the man but because Leland has a splendid cleanup crew and a discreet surgeon on retainer. James knows that Owlsley won't hand them over to Armenians, mostly because his hate for them runs deeper than his lack of sympathy for Fisk.

Waiting for help, James keeps his handgun close and eyes on the rise and fall on Wilson's chest.

“Don't die,” he whispers softly. “Don't die.”

He's not sure what to call this thing between them, this wonderfully twisted relationship based on debts and loyalties. They are, by far, not equals – and if this is indeed love, as James suspects (how the hell would he know, no one ever has loved him), it's more the owner's love for their pet. It fits, James thinks in those long minutes, sleeves of his white shirt dripping wet with crimson. Wilson is the owner, the one who cares for his pet and makes sure James has everything he needs, that he doesn't fall into addiction again. James thanks him by serving – and he's doing it so well, it's the one thing he's good at. He's being taken care of but it doesn't mean he can't take care of Fisk in return.

*

Wilson Fisk isn't a person. It's a name you just don't speak out loud because then men in black clothes and steel in their eyes come for you.

Wilson Fisk is a name you don't speak out loud because as long as you're silent, it protects both men standing behind it.

*

They both know it will end with death.

One day Wilson won't need James anymore but he can't just let him go. Wesley knows too much, has seen to much – so when his usefulness runs out, there will be a soft and merciful death waiting for him at the end of the road. A bullet to the head or a blade slipped gently between his ribs, piercing the heart when he's resting in Wilson's arms.

One day someone is going to use what James is to Fisk – his right hand man, his confidante, his soft spot – and kill Wesley just to punish his master. An assassination, or cutting him into little pieces and sending home one box at a time.

One day one of their enemies is going to offer a huge sum of money for Wilson's head. The taboo put on the name can't protect them forever so one day a bullet shot by a sniper will reach Fisk's heart. Or a poison in his drink during a fundraiser.

There are so many ways to kill a man.


	2. Vase with Red Gladioli (F247)

This subtle game of power and survival is actually a game of appearances. And if you're new to it then God help you because it's almost like you've already lost.

One mistake is all it takes and the streets of New York don't forgive easily. So listen carefully. Do not have any loyalties, do not make promises, do not make friends – you can have only allies, respect your enemies, sleep with a gun under your pillow and never, ever love anyone. You can have either power or love. Never both.

No one said that power doesn't come with a price.

*

At first, he appears to be a gentle giant, somewhat awkward and in a way simply charming man who may not be precisely her type but there's something about him Vanessa simply can't put her finger on. She's interested even if she tries to appear bored or put off – it's just a strategy, nothing more. It allows her to see more of Wilson Fisk and at first she's not exactly sure if she likes what she sees. He's not an innocent soul with a noble plan she imagined him to be. But maybe innocent and good are not the things she wants anymore.

Still, Vanessa feels like there's a puzzle missing. A central piece she needs to see the whole painting, even if it's just a white rabbit lost in a snow storm or a match in a burning house. Like any good art observer, she knows that sometimes things seen from afar have much more meaning than details.

She finds the missing part in the person of James Wesley, the ever patient shadow in impeccable suits and with a bitter, sharp smile on his lips. Vanessa looks from him to Wilson and the understanding hits her. She's replacing him. Not literally, not in a way that would really matter, it's not like her presence means that James needs to disappear. His role changes, nothing more. But at the same time nothing less and for a moment Vanessa feels oh so guilty about breaking that man's heart.

They usually don't have time nor occasion to speak but she finds a way. She wants to delve further, see more of this twisted relationship so she arranges a little moment when Wilson is preoccupied and she can corner Wesley. Of course, he knows what she's going to say even before the words form on her lips.

“Are you going to ask me now if I'm fucking him?” James' face is perfectly neutral in stark contrast to his virulent tone. Vanessa winces at this blatant, almost cruel show of antipathy.

“No,” she replies quietly, “I'm going to ask if you love him.”

“Love… Love has no real merit in this world, miss Marianna. It just doesn't happen. You should learn that, and be quick about it if you're here to stay.”

Her smile is almost kind, with only sharp edges telling him that she's not going to be an easy opponent. Nothing changes in James' face but he's surprised. She can tell.

“You love him.” It's not a question, not this time. She's sure. Just wants to hear it from him.

“So do you.”

Vanessa laughs quietly. The air shifts.

“What a pair we are, mister Wesley. What a pair indeed.”

Now they have something in common, something they will protect from whatever they can even though Wilson Fisk is not a man who needs protecting from the outside world. Maybe only from his own demons and rabbits in snowstorms.

*

If you made a mistake of falling in love – love quickly. As fast as you can.

Whatever it is you love, it will be gone.

*

Vanessa is good with people. She can analyze them like her beloved paintings, like van Gogh's insane colors and Picasso's forms. Layer upon layer of paint – just like human's psyche, it's quite easy to see through if you look closely. So she reads Wilson like the old masterpieces, bit by bit. With her hands on wide expanses of naked skin and lips reddened by uncountable kisses, with whispers and quiet laughs when she discovers he has tickles. Slowly she sees more and more, in the frame of his shoulders when he stares at that one painting he bought from her, in almost invisible relief when James appears in the apartment every morning still alive and not bleeding, in tensions around Wilson's eyes when he reads long lists of numbers on Wesley's tablet.

Vanessa can see that Wilson's world is a small, closed off space no intruder can enter. She was invited to and sees it as a honor it probably is. But who knows with Wilson Fisk these days? All she sees is vulnerability as he watches his own hands on her body, huge and so impossibly gentle. She sees the dark he tries to hide, tries to protect her from even though Vanessa Marianna is not a woman who would run away from the challenge. No. At this point she's ready to embrace his darkness and love it as her own. And she will because there's also hurt, so much pain in the way he holds her close at night, in a way he wakes up when she goes to the bathroom and returns to find him sitting on the bed, ready to search for her.

Vanessa loves him for the silent wonder she sees in his eyes every morning when she steals a bit of toast from his plate or kisses his forehead.

*

There's so much more she can tell about James.

And at the same time she already knows it all because what she sees in him, she can also see in the mirror.

*

Vanessa accepts that some things just come with the territory. Like the fact that Wilson doesn't want her to stay on her own for a little while – “this masked freak”, he says, and she can fill in the gaps for herself – so she accepts Wesley's constant presence as a part of life. Even now, as they both sit in her living room with glasses of wine and the streets of New York glisten with rain and neon lights.

“You're his longest steady relationship, you know,” she starts conversationally and James looks at her questioningly.

“So?”

Vanessa bites her lower lip, looking for suitable words.

“I don't want it to fall apart because of me,” she puts her glass aside and looks at Wesley seriously. “I'm what he wants. But you're what he _needs_.”

James is Wilson's right hand man, he's incapable of doing anything untoward. Sometimes Vanessa wishes he would scream or cry or try to kill her, and she's scared of her own mind but at the same time this inert acceptance unnerves her. Vanessa can see many things. But she cannot understand how James could just embrace the fact he was put aside because of her.

To her surprise, Wesley chuckles. His smile is crooked and for a moment she thinks there was a tear in his eye.

“I'm his professional life, miss Marianna,” he looks at her with that smile and Vanessa feels a sudden need to hug him, to simply hold him and kiss this sadness away. It's so intense, it's almost painful and it should surprise her but doesn't, not really. “And you're his personal one, I have a full understanding of this.”

“No, mister Wesley,” she says quietly and slowly, with her hands in his line of sight as if not to startle a wild animal, she gets up and walks up to him. “We're both. He can have us both any way he wants and needs, my dear.”

He doesn't believe her, not yet anyway. But his lips are warm underneath hers and when the palms of his hands find their place on her hips, they are sure and steady. James' tongue chases Wilson's taste on her skin and for a moment Vanessa wonders if Wesley imagines her to be someone else.

But when he fucks her into the pillows of her pretty, green sofa, it doesn't really matter. And if he whispers soft endearments that are meant for different ears, they don't speak about it afterward.

James kisses her tenderly before he leaves.

*

Vanessa knows that loving one of them means loving both.

She wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Vase with Red Gladioli](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/22/Vincent_Willem_van_Gogh_124.jpg/640px-Vincent_Willem_van_Gogh_124.jpg)


	3. Starry Night over the Rhone (F474)

The first thing he notices as he slowly wakes up, is the warmth.

There are legs tangled with his own, and two warm bodies pressed to his. The one to his left smells of rain and gunpowder, of pines and woods in the morning mist. _James_. He's on his side with fingers clutching tightly the soft cloth of Wilson's shirt, the garment rumpled beyond any hope. To Fisk's right, smaller frame – French lavender and paint, Vanessa's hair on the pillow, her face hidden by her own arms. The woman is shamelessly naked, what a sight they are – Wilson in his complete sleeping attire, James only in black boxer briefs and Vanessa, who hides absolutely nothing. It says so much about them, he thinks. All the secrets and all the lies he is wearing and all of her innocence in this big city mud. James, torn between secrets that are his to keep and at the very same time the strange kind of purity. The blood on James' hands is not his fault or his choice, not really. It's Wilson who carries the burden and the blame.

His shoulders are wide and strong for a reason. He can carry it until the very end.

Vanessa snores softly, something that always amuses both men, something so precious in those small hours of the morning that Wilson can't even find words for it. All he knows now, it his precise moment in time, is comfort and warmth, the feeling of belonging between the two bodies – and adoration deeper and more meaningful than just matter of flesh. Not that having both of them in his bed isn't good, it's more than that, it's utterly perfect and there will never be a day he'll have enough of Vanessa's little moans when James is between her thighs, or Wesley's shameless cries as Wilson moves in him, buried so deep. But this, right there, means more than just physical release. It means also the trust it takes to fall asleep with people in the same room. It's the intimacy of Vanessa's scent on Wilson's fingers and easy rhythm of three breaths.

It means that he can get lost in them and not inside his own head. There are no rabbits and no snowstorms. The white framed canvass resembles only a badly painted wall and there is no screaming at the back of his head, no fear or anguish.

For this moment, Wilson Fisk feels blessed.

*

There are no blessings for the wicked and he knows it well. Wilson knows that if it meant keeping them both forever, he would stop his march towards achieving everything he ever wanted in a blink of an eye. The thought scares him.

Bad times, though, wait for no one. Especially for the wicked.

*

She looks like a doll, pale and so beautiful in her almost death. There's almost no color left on her face and only beeping machines tell them that yes, she's still alive, she's still fighting, she's still there. There's no way of predicting how many breaths they'll have to count before all this is over. If men like them could pray, they would – but they forgot the names of gods long time ago and who the hell knows what to believe these days? It's rather unlikely that Odin or Thor will come down from the sky and save her. That leaves only a monotonous litany of “love, don't die” and “please, please, please” heard only by the patient, silent walls.

James can't take it. He steps out and decides to protect this sanctuary smelling of disinfectants and fear. He couldn't save her from poison but he can limit the annoying personnel, the loud voices and hurried steps. It's not much, he knows. But it's something.

Wilson is the bear, the figure looming over doctors and nurses, looking at them with a strange mix of hate and limitless gratitude because they hold Vanessa's life in their hands and it's so fragile now. James is the wolf, circling around what is his to protect and buffering it from harsh reality. So when reality calls and there's damage control to be done, a nosy kid to kill and he doesn't want to worry Wilson. So James slips inside only to leave a kiss on Vanessa's too cold lips and one on Fisk's too hot ones.

Then, he leaves.

*

Some say that when you die, it's the hearing that goes out last. Others claim that it's the fear, the primal animal instinct that is telling you that you're about to die. Last effort of bleeding organism to claw its way out of death's way. Or maybe it's the sight since all your life is suddenly shown to you by the resigned brain, the traitor.

They're wrong. All of them.

James dies with the taste of Wilson's kiss on his tongue.

*

Seeing James' lifeless form breaks Wilson Fisk's heart in ways he didn't know were possible. The body still smells of pines and rain and gunpowder but the scent of blood overwhelms it all and Wilson wishes there was time to wash it away, to change the bullet ridden shirt. James would hate it, another suit shot to hell. Bloodied. God, so much blood. And there is no person in there, only the meat and bones and blood pooling on the cement, dusty floor. It is not James Wesley sitting dead on that chair. But it's someone who used to be James, who used to be the person who kissed Wilson's fingers and who sucked his cock, who spent so many sleepless nights on uncomfortable sofas and armchairs, who liked pizza but hated pasta and who smelled like pines and rain.

For a moment there's no snowstorm, there's only red. But then the rabbit is once again chasing its own tail and the screaming is back in Fisk's head. Someone is going to pay for this, even if it means that he'll have to burn the city down to the ground and then put salt on its ashes.

There will be no funeral. And there will be no headstone with a name and date – maybe years later, when all this is over and a grave won't raise any suspicions. But for now they will wrap James in some tarps, carefully, with respect, and take the body to an undertaker who has an access to a crematorium.

James Wesley's resting place will be a small rose garden on the outskirts of the city, overlooking the water. It's soothing, in a way. But only a bit.

*

I told you. Do. Not. Love.

You can't blame anyone but yourself for this, dearie.

*

Telling Vanessa – his still pale, fragile Vanessa who has purple shadows under her eyes and a will to live – shatters whatever Wilson had left. She doesn't cry. The loss is too fresh and it rips her soul apart because James Wesley wasn't a good man but he deserved someone to weep for him. She can't. They have no time to grieve, everything happens so fast for her. First they are happy and then she's dying, James is dead and Wilson…

She can feel him slipping through her fingers and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. So she kisses Wilson and tastes tears. She has nothing to remember them by – no photos since it would be too dangerous, no meaningful dates or jewelry. Even memories are too few, James could have a long life but someone took it and now Vanessa has nothing, she's once again lost in the snowstorm that doesn't seem to end. The happy times are over all too soon and everything she has is a faint hope and two bottles of perfume she took in a hurry. One smells of pines and rain. The other – of cedarwood and ash. It's all she takes with her to her exile – that and her grief, her rage and loneliness. It's so, so unfair that when she found the two people that made her, in a strange and twisted way, happy she had to lose them both. But maybe that how it's supposed to be. Maybe the snowstorm will end one day.

And as Vanessa gets into the helicopter, all the can think of are Vincent van Gogh's last words.

“ _Th_ _e_ _sadness will last forever._ ”

In the distance, New York is as bright and beautiful and lonely as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Starry Night over the Rhone](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/94/Starry_Night_Over_the_Rhone.jpg)
> 
> For updates, info on my projects, cats and lots of rambling, you can [find me on tumblr :)](http://malicess.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> All paintings used in this work were created by Vincent van Gogh.
> 
> русский translation available [here!](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3469335)
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](http://issayscorner.tumblr.com/)


End file.
